CHAPTER ONE
TICKET TO RIDE
Harrison Beck pulled a pen from the pocket of his yellow jacket, deftly turning it over his index finger so it was nib down, and began to draw in the central margin of the newspaper spread across the table. The worry lines he saw gouged into his father’s forehead were making him nervous.
Colin Beck put down the sports section of the paper with a frustrated sigh and pointed at the station clock. “He said he’d meet us here at five. We’re in the café your brother specified; it’s five o’clock.” He looked out at the people crisscrossing the station. “So where is he, Bev?”
“Don’t fret, love,” Beverly Beck scolded her husband gently. “It’ll give you indigestion.” She laid her hand on his sleeve. “Nat’ll be here.”
Hal’s pen twitched as he studied his mother’s face. She looked tired. Dad’s blue duffle coat drowned her, but she was so pregnant that her bump bulged out the front. No one had asked him if he wanted a baby sister—he was getting one whether he liked it or not. He put down his pen.
“Mom, I don’t want to go with Uncle Nat. I want to stay with you. I don’t like trains. They’re boring.”
“I know, sausage”—she reached over and ruffled his hair—“but it’ll be good for you to spend some time with your uncle. He’s an interesting man.”
Hal made a face. Whenever a grown-up said something was good for you, that meant it was dull, or disgusting, or both.
“You’d only be stuck in a hospital waiting room, and that’s no place for you to end your summer holiday.” She patted his hand. “You might even enjoy yourself.”
“I won’t.” Hal looked up through the glass roof of the station at a cloudy sky. He didn’t want to be packed off on a train journey with a weird uncle he only ever saw at Christmas. The high brick arches of King’s Cross were wrapped in a white latticework sculpture that made the inside of the station feel like a hive, and all the busy passengers, bees. A seething tangle of people rushed about dragging bags and carrying briefcases. A man stood next to a metal rack stacked with newspapers, shoving them at people. Hal glimpsed the headline JEWEL THIEF STRIKES AGAIN as a woman in a suit snatched one from the vendor, flipping it under her armpit to read on the train. Two bulging-breasted pigeons strutted toward him, pecking at the floor.
Colin Beck kicked out his leg. “Get away.” He grunted. “Vermin.”
Hal frowned at his dad, tearing the crust from his half-eaten ham sandwich and ducking under the table to toss it to the startled-eyed birds. The pigeons grabbed the finger of bread and began a tug-of-war. A pair of sneakers, charcoal suede with three white stripes, stopped beside the table. Hal saw chestnut herringbone trousers with a crisp vertical crease. It could only be one person. Mom’s metal chair scraped against the concrete floor as she got up.
“Nat!” she cried, waddling around the table and throwing her arms around her older brother.
“Careful, Bev—you’ll knock me over.” Uncle Nat put down his battered leather suitcase and umbrella, hugging her. “How are you, pet? Are you well?”
“Yes,” Mom replied, her eyes darting to Hal. “I’m fine.”
“Nathaniel, good to see you.” Dad was on his feet, grabbing Uncle Nat’s hand and shaking it. “We appreciate you doing this—we really do.”
Hal’s eyes flicked from his uncle to his father. Uncle Nat was composed of straight lines. He was thin, had neatly trimmed straight hair, and wore thick-framed tortoiseshell glasses. His crumpet-colored raincoat and mustard sweater went perfectly with his trousers and shoes. By contrast, Dad was a jumble of circles. His kind round face reached up to a receding bowl of salt-and-pepper hair crowned with a bald patch. His shoulders rolled forward, and his navy plaid shirt was tucked into his brown-belted chinos, underlining his overhanging belly.
Uncle Nat turned to Hal, his eyes twinkling. “It’s about time I got to know my nephew better.” He offered Hal his hand. “You’ve grown since Christmas, Harrison. Are you excited about our steam-powered adventure?”
Hal shook his uncle’s hand and nodded, but he wasn’t going to say yes, because that would be a lie. A journey all the way to Scotland and back on the slowest train in the world with his weird uncle was not what he called an adventure.
“Are you sure you’re all right with Hal coming with you?” Mom said, picking up Hal’s rucksack and slipping it onto his shoulders. “I’ve told him to give you space when you need to work.”
Uncle Nat was a travel writer, and he’d agreed to bring Hal along with him on a work trip, while Beverly Beck went to the hospital to have the baby.
“Absolutely. Don’t worry about us.” Uncle Nat placed a careful hand on his sister’s bump. “You concentrate on bringing this baby out into the world safely. I expect all three of you to be at Paddington station to meet us on our return, in four days.”
“Yes.” Hal nodded furiously. His mouth moved, but no other words came out.
“I’m going to be all right, Hal,” his mom said softly. She bent down, putting her hand to his cheek. “You mustn’t worry. Your dad’ll look after me.” She undid the silver chain that hung around her neck. “Here, take Grandad’s Saint Christopher for good luck. The patron saint of travelers will keep you safe on your journey.”
Hal gripped the silver medallion between his thumb and forefinger. He felt the engraving of Saint Christopher, staff in hand, child on shoulders. “But what if you need it?”
“You can give it back to me when you get home.” She fastened the necklace and then fussed with his jacket, pulling out the hood where it had gathered under his rucksack. She ran the tips of her fingers through his ash-blond hair. “You’ll be a good boy for your uncle, won’t you?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“What route is the Highland Falcon taking, Nathaniel?” his dad asked.
“We’ll be traveling up the east coast to Balmoral, where we’ll stop for lunch tomorrow, before looping round Scotland and back down the west.”
Hal’s dad nodded. “They’ve spent days putting up decorations in Crewe. The station looked impressive when we got the train down today.”
“I expect there’ll be lots of ceremonial pomp.” Uncle Nat winked at Hal. “This will be a journey you’ll remember for the rest of your life.”
“You’re lucky to be going on this trip, son.” Hal’s dad patted his shoulder. “When I were a lad, I remember waving to the Highland Falcon as she passed through Crewe. She’s a lovely-looking locomotive.”
“I’m going to miss you.” Hal’s mom hugged him. “Do as your uncle says, and we’ll see you in four days.”
“We’re going to have fun.” Uncle Nat picked up his suitcase, hooked his umbrella over his arm, and took hold of Hal’s hand. “Right, we’ve got to get a move on. We don’t want to miss our train.”
Hal struggled to speak. He hadn’t said goodbye properly. His parents drew back, waving and smiling as Uncle Nat pulled him across the concourse. He saw his father put a protective arm around his mother. They turned and walked into the crowd, and—just like that—they were gone.
“You’re going to need your ticket.” Uncle Nat let go of Hal and reached into the pocket of his raincoat.
Scanning the crowd for a glimpse of his parents, Hal saw only the blank faces of strangers. His insides felt hollow. Uncle Nat pressed a white rectangle into his hand.
“Are you ready, Harrison?” His voice was soft, like Hal’s mom’s.
Hal glanced over his shoulder, then looked up at his uncle and nodded. “I’m ready.”
A crowd of people were gathered by the platform entrance, jostling for position.
“Let’s not dawdle on the red carpet,” Uncle Nat said, striding toward them. “We’ll leave the stage for those who like the spotlight.”
Looking down at his yellow jacket and faded blue jeans, Hal felt a jolt of panic. He wasn’t wearing the right clothes for walking on a red carpet.
“Tickets, please,” a uniformed guard said. Hal held out the white card with his name on it. Cameras flashed, and the guard smiled. “Welcome, Harrison Beck, to the final journey of the Highland Falcon.”
CHAPTER TWO
THE HIGHLAND FALCON
The first thing Hal saw was a glittering greenhouse on wheels. The bottom half of the carriage was varnished wood, the top half, sparkling rectangles of glass held in place by gold rods that arched up and over the train. Inside he could see lush green tropical plants.
“What kind of train has a greenhouse?”
“That’s an observation car,” Uncle Nat said with a grin. “It’s for admiring the scenery. As we chuff down the tracks, we’ll be able to enjoy the late-summer colors of the countryside or gaze out at the North Sea. You might catch a glimpse of the kraken.”
“The kraken isn’t real.” Hal didn’t believe in sea monsters; he was nearly twelve.
“Really? Well then, when it gets dark, you can lie on one of the sofas and look up at the stars.”
A cry went up. Hal turned and saw a woman sashaying along the red carpet in a forget-me-not-blue dress. She looked over her shoulder at the cameras, pouting her red lips and throwing her head back, laughing at nothing.
Hal gasped. “Sierra Knight! What’s she doing here?”
But Uncle Nat was striding away from the red carpet and didn’t reply.
“Sierra Knight’s famous.” Hal ran to catch up with his uncle. “She’s a movie star.”
“Sierra Knight is one of the guests,” Uncle Nat replied. “She’s part of the grand tour.”
“Sierra Knight is coming on the train with us? No way!” Hal couldn’t wait to tell his best friend, Ben, about this. He’d swallow his own tongue with jealousy—he had a mega crush on Sierra Knight. “What happens on a grand tour, Uncle Nat? What do we do?”
“We live, eat, and sleep in one of the finest trains ever created,” Uncle Nat said, “and we stay out of trouble. We’re lucky we’re nobodies. Nobodies have no formal duties. The royal couple have to do all the hard work.”
“Royal couple?”
“Didn’t your mom tell you that you were coming with me on the royal steam train?”
“I wasn’t listening,” Hal admitted. “I wanted to stay and help Dad take care of Mom.”
Uncle Nat put his hand on Hal’s shoulder and leaned down. “Do you know what would help your mom more than anything?”
“Me being out of the way.” Hal looked at the floor.
“No. You having a great holiday with me and coming back with stories to tell her while she recovers. There will be plenty of opportunities to look after her when we’re back. What will make your mom happy is knowing that you’re happy. Isn’t it?”
Hal nodded begrudgingly.
“So chin up. Time to start enjoying yourself. Look at that veranda.” His uncle pointed the tip of his umbrella at a platform extending from the observation car. “Exquisite ironwork. See the floral motif around the royal crest? Fantastic.”
Hal looked at the metal and wondered if his uncle wasn’t a little bit crazy. “Um, yeah—fantastic ironwork.”
“Once the royal couple has boarded at Balmoral, the Highland Falcon will slow down to a walking pace when it travels through a station. The prince and princess will stand on the veranda waving at well-wishers, celebrating their recent wedding.” He lifted a finger, and a porter scurried over.
“Yes, sir?” The porter bobbed his head.
“Compartment nine, please.” Uncle Nat took Hal’s rucksack from his back, putting it down beside his suitcase. “Now, Harrison, before getting under steam, I always pay a visit to the loco—that’s short for locomotive.” He raised the point of his umbrella. “To the engine!” As they marched along the platform, Uncle Nat threw out his hand. “Look! Pullman carriages—the height of luxury.”
Hal had never seen an adult so in love with a train before, and he found himself smiling as his uncle enthusiastically spouted facts about it.
Uncle Nat stopped dead, and Hal bumped into his back. “You see that red? That’s claret—the shade of the royal family’s livery. You won’t see another train this color.”
Hal stared at it. The dense red felt rich with power and the blood of history.
“This carriage,” his uncle continued, “is the King Edward Saloon. It was built before the war, for King George V. It has a wonderful library, as well as card tables and a dartboard.”
“Dartboard? Isn’t that dangerous on a moving train?”
“Of course. Much more fun. This is the dining car, where we’ll eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and where we board the train, through those double doors.”
A tall man in a burgundy suit with gold buttons and gold-trimmed pockets and lapels stepped forward.
“Mr. Bradshaw, sir.” The man dipped his peaked cap. “It’s always a pleasure to have you aboard.”
“Hello, Gordon. This is my nephew, Harrison Beck. Harrison, this is Gordon Goulde, head steward on the royal train.”
“Welcome, Master Beck,” Gordon Goulde said, exposing a row of horse teeth.
“Gordon, I want to take Harrison down to the loco. We’ve time, don’t we?”
“If you’re quick, sir.”
“We’ll be back in two winks of a mole’s eye.” Uncle Nat put a hand on Hal’s back and steered him away from the dining car. “Our sleeping compartment will be somewhere in these guest carriages.”
“What’s that one?” Hal pointed ahead to a carriage with gold-rimmed windows.
“The royal carriages,” said Uncle Nat. “Out-of-bounds to us commoners. They’ll be empty until we get to Balmoral.”
Hal caught his reflection in one of the gold-rimmed windows—springy blond hair, ordinary face, yellow jacket. He wasn’t posh enough for this train.
The curtain of the window twitched, startling him. “Aargh!” As he jumped back, he glimpsed fingers, a button nose, and green eyes—but then they were gone.
“You all right?” Uncle Nat looked amused.
“Yeah.” Hal blushed. “Uh, how did that head steward man know your name?”
“This isn’t my first trip on the Highland Falcon,” Uncle Nat said. “I’m a travel writer, but my specialty is trains. I love these marvelous machines.” He tapped a finger to his temple. “I’ve memorized all the historic routes. If I can’t sleep, I recite the stations, and before I’ve reached the end of the line, I’ve dropped off.” He looked delighted.
“Writing about trains—is that a real job?”
Uncle Nat laughed. “I’ve written about the Highland Falcon before, which is why I’ve been invited back.” He stared along the length of the train to the plumes of dove-gray smoke dancing about the engine’s funnel. “I’m grateful to be given the opportunity to say a proper goodbye to this train. She’s very special.” He gave himself a little shake. “Come on—we must be quick. These last carriages are the service cars for the crew, and there’s the tender.”
“What’s a tender?”
“The truck where the coal and water are stored.”
Hal looked at the skip-sized truck and saw a small door in the wall. He blinked as it opened a fraction, and the top part of a face—dark hair and green eyes—peeped out at him and then disappeared. It was the same face he’d seen in the royal carriage.
“Coal?” Hal asked.
“Of course, coal. What do you think a steam train runs on?”
“Steam?”
“And how is the steam made, Harrison? Eh?”
“With coal?”
“Precisely. With coal.” Uncle Nat waved him forward. “Come on—let’s look her right in the face.”
The proud engine was a burnished claret, its roof a brilliant white. The streamlined nose of the loco dipped like a hawk’s beak. The skirt of the casing lifted on both sides, snarl-like, revealing three giant black wheels. Steam escaped from hidden pipes, hissing threateningly. Water vapor surrounded the engine in a low cloud. Hal felt the urge to pull out his pen and draw the engine, but he had no paper.
“You would have to look for a long time to find an engine more impressive and downright beautiful than this one.” Uncle Nat walked toward the nose of the train and laid his hand on it, patting it as if it were a horse.
Copying his uncle, Hal laid his hand on the metal casing and was surprised to find it was warm and vibrating. The locomotive sighed out a puff of steam, as if it were alive—a dragon, ancient, powerful, and ready to fly.
CHAPTER THREE
DIAMOND DOGS
“Gentlemen.” The train guard appeared. “I’ll be blowing my whistle in seven minutes.”
“Thank you, Graham.” Uncle Nat saluted.
A lightning storm of camera flashes blinded Hal as they hurried back along the platform. Standing on the red carpet was a silver-haired woman in a Robin Hood hat garnished with a long pheasant feather. An astonishing number of pearl necklaces hung around her neck, draping over her tweed hunting jacket. She moved her gloved hand in a circular motion, giving the paparazzi a steely smile.
“Keep up,” Uncle Nat called, as he stepped up into the dining car, passing his coat and umbrella to the head steward.
Hal walked backward to the train, unable to take his eyes off the five fluffy white dogs with diamond-studded collars behind the silver-haired lady. A red-faced man with mousy-brown bangs was clinging to their leashes, trying to control them.
Hal loved dogs. Every birthday and Christmas, he begged for one, but his parents always refused. They said dogs were expensive and a big responsibility. When they’d told him he was going to have a little sister, he’d asked how they could afford another human but not a dog, especially since children were an even bigger responsibility than a dog. He hadn’t meant to be rude, but he found himself being sent to his room anyway.
Stepping into the dining car was like stepping back in time. Neat dining tables draped with white linen tablecloths and flanked with high-backed armchairs were set on opposite sides of the aisle, like a curious narrow restaurant. The air was heavy with furniture polish.
“What are you staring at?” Uncle Nat asked.
Hal pointed out the window. “Imagine being rich enough to have five dogs.”
“That’s the Countess of Arundel, Lady Elizabeth Lansbury—one of the wealthiest women in England. I met her recently at the Duchess of Kent’s gala. A very impressive woman.”
“Do you think she’ll bring her dogs on the train?”
“I hope she doesn’t,” said a reedy voice. “I’m allergic to them.”
“Ernest White.” Uncle Nat crossed the carriage and grasped the hand of an old man wearing a gray wool suit. He was seated at one of the tables reading a newspaper through half-moon spectacles. “What a treat to see you.”
“Always a pleasure, young Nathaniel.” Ernest White smiled. “Quite the commotion out there, isn’t it?” He looked over his spectacles at Hal. “Is this your boy?”
“My nephew, Harrison.”
Hal smiled politely.
“I have a grandson called Harrison.” Ernest shook his hand. “He works on the Caledonian Sleeper. Son of my youngest daughter—she drives freight trains up in Scotland.”
“I didn’t realize you’d be joining the royal tour, Ernest. Not working, I hope?” Uncle Nat sank into the armchair opposite Ernest.
“Lord, no. Too old now.” Ernest looked over at Hal. “I was the head steward on the royal train for forty-seven years.” He sighed. “Some of the happiest moments of my life were on this train.” He turned back to Uncle Nat. “They knew I’d want to say goodbye to her. I was so pleased when I got the invitation.” The old man’s eyes filled up. “It means a lot.”
Not wanting to stare, Hal looked down at Ernest White’s newspaper.
There was a fuss behind him as Lady Lansbury swept into the dining car.
“Ghastly people!” She threw her hands in the air. “One photograph is never enough for those beasts.” She disappeared through the door at the other end of the carriage, leaving the man with her dogs struggling to get them onto the train unassisted.
“They’re Samoyeds!” Hal said excitedly, holding out his hand to the closest one, who promptly licked it.
The dogs’ fluffy white tails wagged as they poked their noses into corners, seeking interesting smells. The dog handler cursed as he was pulled in different directions. Hal tried to help, pulling one out from under a table. It jumped up and licked his face.
“Heel!” shouted the dog handler, and the dogs scrabbled back to him. He herded them through the carriage, following Lady Lansbury.
“I wonder what their names are,” Hal said.
“That’s Baron Wolfgang Essenbach,” Uncle Nat said, “and his youngest son, Milo.”
Hal thought his uncle had meant the dogs, until an imposing man with dark, gray-streaked hair wearing a midnight-blue waistcoat stepped onto the train. Behind him came a tall, glowering figure, all elbows and shoulders. Gordon Goulde welcomed the two men onto the train, ushering them in the direction of the observation car.
“The baron is an old friend of His Royal Highness the Prince,” Ernest White whispered, “and a great rail enthusiast.”
Hal recognized the next guest stepping onto the train. Steven Pickle was a rich entrepreneur who ran lots of companies, including a train company called Grailax, but he was famous for being on a reality TV program. Clinging to his arm was a curvaceous red-haired woman with a fake tan. Hal supposed she must be his wife. Reaching into his pocket, Hal toyed with his pen; he was itching to draw the guests. Steven Pickle’s skin looked like uncooked sausage meat. He had salami for arms and chipolata fingers.
“I don’t believe it,” Ernest White hissed. “Who invited those parasites?”
“Evening.” Steven Pickle greeted them with a nod. “It’s not bad for an antique, is it?” His beady eyes flickered about the carriage. “Could do with modernizing.”
Uncle Nat placed a restraining hand on Ernest’s arm.
“I’m Lydia Pickle.” His wife smiled generously, her red lips lifting like a theater curtain to reveal ultra-white capped teeth. “Nice to meet you.”
Mr. Pickle’s mobile rang. He pulled it from his pocket and shouted into the phone. “Hello? No. I’m busy. Call me back.”
“Lovely to meet you, Lydia,” Uncle Nat replied, shaking her hand as she fluttered her false eyelashes at him. “I’m Nathaniel Bradshaw, and this is my nephew, Harrison.”
Gordon Goulde shut the double doors of the dining car, dropping a brass bar across them. The piercing sound of a whistle made them all look up.
“Thirty-four minutes past,” said Ernest White, checking his watch and tutting. “Four minutes behind schedule already.”
Hal felt a jolt and a thrill as the train began to move. The photographers on the platform surged toward them.
“Quick, Harrison.” Uncle Nat rose. “Let’s go to the observation car and wave King’s Cross goodbye.”
Text copyright © 2020 by M. G. Leonard and Sam SedgmanIllustrations copyright © 2020 by Elisa Paganelli
